The Summer of Two Processionals

date: Jul 24, 2006 10:42 AM
subject: The Summer of Two Processionals

Dear Friends and Family,
Thank you so much for all of your words and thoughts and concerns. I am sorry I haven't been able to write to each of you individually; my internet access has been pretty non-existant since I keep getting shuffled around from place to place. I am currently in Jerusalem, time indefinte, living at the Jewish Agency's apartment and volunteering at a soup kitchen Carmei Hair. I wanted to share a piece I wrote about going to Ma'ayan's wedding and Yotam's funeral in the space of 10 days and some of my experiences in Haifa. Sorry its so long and melodramatic... don't feel obligated to read it. A lot of the catharsis just comes from being able to put words down on paper. Just as a warning to my grandmothers--its a little vivid at some points.
Thank you all for your continued support and love. Please remember to take advantage of every single moment and laugh a lot.
Wishing you all the best,
Melanie

THE SUMMER OF TWO PROCESSIONALS

The summer of two processionals: one happy and one sad, tears at both: tears of joy and tears of deep, deep pain. And the land of Israel in between--roads and trees and mountains and streams that somehow make everything worth it--living and dying and getting married and fighting a war.

The summer of two processionals: and in the middle bombs falling so close you can feel them and air raid sirens that taste like fear.

The summer of two processionals: a joyous occassion, my first friend to get married. She looked magical in her wedding dress--so happy as if she was floating on air. And when she and her new husband looked at each other you couldn't help but be happy for them, to marvel in the wonderful world where such love exists.

There was a breeze and the view of the Jerusalem hills behind the chuppah (wedding canopy)--a bright orange sunset reflecting in their eyes as the blessings were read. The last rays of light reached across the horizon as parents beamed--the first wedding for one family, the last for the other. The ceremony was beautiful and I cried simply because I was happy, and I felt old, and part of me just wanted things to stay the same the way they were four years ago.

The first processional was joyful and holy, sanctified, as I walked behind the bride and her parents and all of the other woman as we accompanied her to the chuppah. I saw friends I haven't seen in year and it was such a happy time for a reunion.

And then a few days later the katuyshot rockets started to fall. Straight from Lebanon I heard them that morning. On the bus on the way to work--a boom that was impossible to pretend was anything else after the air raid siren went off. We were heading towards the Heart Of the Bay train and bus station but the bus driver pulled into the mall next door and we all ran into the mall's bomb shelter. Only later that day did I see on the news the impact of that rocket that I heard just a few meters away--8 railway workers dead, many more injured. I was downstairs in the mall's bomb shelter for two hours. Perhaps there were 200, 300 people there spilling out into the underground parking lot. People clustered around car radios like moths to a flame; no one knew what was going on and I knew no one.

After two hours the busses chaotically started to run again. My only thought was to go back to my building so I could be in a bomb shelter with my friends instead of by myself. I couldn't find my exact bus so I took one that ran through my neighborhood and I had to walk about 15 minutes back to my building. As I was walking back the air raid sirens went off again and more rockets started coming down in Kiryat Eliezar, my neighborhood. I can't even begin to explain to you what it felt like--I felt like I was in a movie. The streets were deserted and I was running in the middle of the road. It was like time stopped and sound stopped except for the siren and the boom boom of the rockets down the street and I was running next to a security guard and she was crying and I think I was too but I'm not sure. It was all over in a matter of seconds--the bombs stopped and the siren went off--but it was so surreal. I have never been so terrified in my entire life.

The bride from the first processional came to pick me and her husband's grandmother up from Haifa and brought us to Jerusalem so I could celebrate the end of her "sheva brachot" (week of post-wedding celebrations). Bombs to weddings--I will never get used to this country. Girls who had grown up in Gush Etzion, in the West Bank, who have suffered many tragedies of their own, couldn't believe that I had this morning been in Haifa. Usually it is the other way around.

And then a few days later a phone call of the most horrifying sort. I was eating felafel, heaped with hummous and chips when it came. Standing at the bus stop as our bus is pulling up, hearing those words: "Do you remember Yotam?" Of course, Yotam the kibbutznik. Strong, silent, Israeli. Exactly the kind of person you picture when you think "kibbutznik." Now in the army somewhere in some elite unit, just like we knew he would be. Of course I remember Yotam.

"He was killed today in Southern Lebanon."

Yotam?!? Not our Yotam!! He's only 21. 21 like you and me! It can't be true. It's not on the news yet, it can't be true. "I have to go," and we hung up the phone.

Sobbing--wandering the streets of Jerusalem by myself, no idea where I'm going and no idea why. I know this street--Yaffo Street--like the back of my hand but somehow it looks different through the tears. I can't explain why I'm so upset, sad, lost. We weren't that close. I haven't seen you in two years and we didn't keep in touch.

But something--something about you, Yotam.

Do you remember, Yotam, when Or and I came to visit your kibbutz? You gave me the best hug ever. You had just started the army that month or maybe a little while before and you were so proud. But modest, always modest. I was terrified of your gun. And we met your girlfriend and looked at pictures.

Do you remember, Yotam, how you used to play guitar on Friday afternoons before Shabbos on our trip, teaching me Israeli songs? I remember one Friday in the Golan--we could see Lebanon and Syria from the hill outside the gate--laying in the grass and laughing with a group of people. Or do you remember how you climbed an entire mountain all over again because Lindsay thought she forgot her cell phone at the top? Everyone laughed when you guys told the story about how, at the very top, she found the phone in her bag.

Do you remember, Yotam, how I thought you could do anything? YOU were "kibbutz" for me.

No one knows anything for sure yet as I continue walking. Jerusalem--Israel--this country that I love, that I know you love--that you died to defend. I wish I could make the people walking past me see what you did for them shake them ask them yell "Are you grateful??? He was only 21 and he died for this country!!"

A wedding car decorated with white and purple ribbons passes and fresh tears stream down my face as I think of all the things you will never do--get married, go to university, have children, hike another mountain. You will never again work with the fish on kibbutz and never again impress us with your barbequing skills.

Other calls come and its no longer possible to pretend. And no one knows the details but Yotam I don't want to. I'm scared for you and all of our other friends in the army and I'm so sad for you, Yotam, our kibbutznik. And when your face stares up at me from the front page of the paper the next morning the tears come again and I can't believe that "Yotam Gilboa z"l" is my Yotam Gilboa.

The second processional: Seeing your coffin drapped with the Israeli flag--seeing your parents and your girlfriend and your brothers and one of them looks so much like you I catch my breath and think maybe it was a mistake.

The second processional is longer and slower and more solemn as we walk towards the kibbutz graveyard. Your parents lean on each other for support and everyone is crying. Again I see more friends I haven't seen in years, but the hugs are fierce instead of joyous and the silences between us are too heavy to fill.

And there's an image in my mind that I will never be able to erase for as long as I live: the soldiers, proud in their green uniforms, so official, working in silent unison to shovel dirt on your grave. It was only then that I understood you were gone.

And I can't remember so much of what people said, except that I wanted everyone in the whole world to know that they weren't just saying it--that it was TRUE. That you WERE a friend to everyone and you cared so much and you always made sure everything was OK. That you were Yotam.

I'm sitting here now looking at the hills of Israel in the golden afternoon light before Shabbos. The breeze smells sweet and the land has a special biblical beauty to it. I've found the tears coming at strange points today when I remember you're gone. Tears I can't explain for a loss I can't fill or understand. To Israel maybe you were just another soldier with your picture in the news, but to me you were a friend.

I haven't heard a katuysha rocket in a few days now since I've been out of the north but the situation is still shaky and I don't know what I'll do or where I'll sleep. Three more soldiers died today in a helicopter crash and my heart breaks thinking about their families and friends and the funerals that will come. But also on the front page of the paper is a picture of a bride and groom from the north who kept their wedding date despite the situation and got married in a bomb shelter.

The summer of two processionals: one happy, one so painful, with rockets in between. There's something about this land that leads me down two such different paths, with tears of joy and tears of pain all in just a few days. There's something about this land in the summer of two processionals.


--July 21, 2006